


Maidens Call It Love-in-Idleness

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zelenka shrugs, his face the picture of innocence. “No reason. I do not believe Colonel Sheppard has asked anyone yet either.”</p><p>“What’s <i>that</i> supposed to mean?” McKay demands.</p><p>“Nothing, nothing,” Zelenka says, putting one hand up non-threateningly. “I am merely pointing out that both you and Colonel Sheppard are currently dateless. What you make of that information is up to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maidens Call It Love-in-Idleness

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Thanks to Aadarshinah for the beta.

McKay has simulations running on three different computers and is setting up a fourth, typing one-handed as he shoves a PowerBar in his mouth with the other. He is, by all definitions, very very busy doing very very important things when Zelenka sidles up and asks, “So who are you taking to the personnel mixer?”

“Hmm?” says McKay, distracted. He thinks he’s managed to isolate a potential failure in one of the minor power conduits, and fixing it now will save them all a lot of trouble down the road. Belatedly, his brain processes the question, and he looks up to find Zelenka staring at him expectantly. McKay gives him a blank look and says, “Don’t you have more important things to do than hassle me about my personal life?”

Zelenka’s unfazed. “Have you not asked anyone?”

To be honest, McKay had sort of forgotten about Woolsey’s latest attempt to foster community between people that had been on Atlantis for years and the post-San Francisco Bay-detour additions. They all get along well enough, as least as far as McKay can be bothered to notice. He’s mostly only concerned with his people anyway. The ones that are good enough to hack it, the constant peril and McKay’s temper, stay, and the ones who aren’t get sent back to Earth. It’s as simple as that.

He huffs out a breath. “No,” he admits testily. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Zelenka takes a sip of his coffee. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

McKay turns his chair to face Zelenka and raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know. Why?”

Zelenka shrugs, his face the picture of innocence. “No reason. I do not believe Colonel Sheppard has asked anyone yet either.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” McKay demands.

“Nothing, nothing,” Zelenka says, putting one hand up non-threateningly. “I am merely pointing out that both you and Colonel Sheppard are currently dateless. What you make of that information is up to you.”

McKay narrows his eyes, but before he can question him further, Zelenka leaves the lab.

He rolls his eyes, grumbles, “Cryptic Czech bastard,” and gets back to work.

\--

A few days later, he runs into Miko in the mess hall (almost literally--she walks with her head low, eyes on the floor, and McKay has too many important galaxy-saving things on his mind to worry about paying attention to his surroundings). She apologizes profusely in that quick, breathy way of hers.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he interrupts once it’s clear she won’t stop until he’s acknowledged her. He makes a concerted effort not to snap at her. He’s learned the hard way that while Miko is brilliant, she will also burst into tears at the drop of a hat, and he just doesn’t have the time to assure her he’s not mad and her work is fine. McKay would have thought she’d have gotten over it by now, but it is her worst habit and she’s far from the most idiotic of his staff. “Just watch where you’re going.”

“Yes, of course.” she says, nodding. McKay starts to move along, but she looks like she’s about to say something else.

“Yes?” he prompts, impatience creeping into his voice. They have those banana-like muffins for lunch today, and he wants to snag one before Ronon eats them all.

Miko hesitates then says, “I was just wondering if you have asked anyone to the mixer yet?” There’s a blush coloring her cheeks and her eyes immediately drop from McKay’s face to the floor.

“Oh, um--” McKay starts awkwardly. Miko is pretty enough, he guesses, even if she does insist on wearing those absurdly huge glasses, but she requires way more delicate handling than he has patience for. “Look, Miko, I’m flattered, really, but--”

Miko flushes scarlet and her hands come up. “Oh, no, no, not _me_ , Dr. McKay!” she squeaks, gaze firmly on her feet. “I am not trying to _invite_ you, no, merely inquiring.” She backs away a bit.

“Oh,” says McKay lamely. “Right, yes, of course.” He clears his throat. “Uh, no, I haven’t. Have you?” he asks like an idiot instead of trying to extricate himself from this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Yes, Major Hinton invited me,” says Miko. She fiddles with the end of her sleeve. “I do not believe Colonel Sheppard has asked anyone either.”

McKay stares at her. 

She turns an even brighter shade of red, then says, “Excuse me!” and flees.

McKay will never pretend he understands Miko Kusanagi. He shakes his head and then continues to the lunch line.

\--  
He’s picking himself up off of the gym floor after a sparring session with Teyla (she’d requested it out of the blue, and McKay doesn’t see her nearly as much as he’d like, so he’d agreed), when she asks, apropos of nothing, “Have you invited anyone to Mr. Woolsey’s gathering yet?”

Two data points may well be a coincidence, but three indicates a trend. He narrows his eyes at her. “No. Why do you ask?”

She laughs a little, good-naturedly. “You are my friend, Rodney, and I am interested in your life.” She hands him his water bottle.

“Oh,” says McKay, and maybe he’s overreacting just a little. It seems the upcoming party is on everyone’s minds these days, even though it’s still two weeks away. He keeps catching Zelenka looking at him oddly, and Miko avoids making eye contact even more than usual, but Teyla’s curiosity is probably unrelated to that. “No, I haven’t asked anyone.” He swipes a hand across his brow and takes a long drink from the bottle.

Teyla’s doing some sort of cool-down stretching that she keeps trying to teach him. He watches her for a moment, waiting for her, and yeah, he’s pretty sure he’ll never be that flexible. She straightens up, and they walk to the transporter.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” she asks.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he says honestly.

Teyla gives him a patient smile. “I am confident you will think of someone.” They get into the transporter, and Teyla touches the spot for the personnel quarters. They rematerialize, and she says, “I will see you at the briefing tomorrow. Good night, Rodney.”

They part ways, and McKay heads for his own room and the shower he desperately needs. Maybe he’ll ask that new geologist to the party--Juarez, he thinks her name was. She’s stunning, and even if he has to police his tone or listen to her talk about rocks, if it gets around that he actually has a date, maybe people will stop asking him about it.

\--

“Who are you taking to the party?” Ronon asks. They’re off-world, on the planet of the endless rice fields, apparently, waiting for Teyla and Sheppard to finish trade negotiations. Ronon’s sharpening a knife he pulled out of his hair, looking nonchalant and totally fine with getting them both kicked out of the meeting.

“Who says I need to go with anyone?” McKay snaps with a glare.

Ronon gives him a look that is probably supposed to be sympathetic, but his eyes are full of mirth. “Got shot down, huh?”

“How was I supposed to know Dr. Juarez is gay?”

Ronon abandons his faux-sympathy and chuckles. “You’ll find someone.” His eyes dart over to the tent housing the trade discussion. “I don’t think Sheppard’s asked anyone either.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” McKay asks. It’s not like he’s never thought about Sheppard as a potential sexual partner--he considers almost everyone he meets as a potential sexual partner, at least briefly. He would have to be both blind and an idiot not to notice that, objectively, Sheppard is just a really attractive guy.

But he’s never really considered Sheppard as a potential _romantic_ partner. He’s a guy, for one thing, and while McKay might be okay with the odd quasi-anonymous gay hand job if there aren’t any women around, he’s really more into breasts on a long-term basis.

Well. Yeah, okay, Sheppard _would_ be way more fun to go to the mixer with than pretty much anyone else. They could hide out in a corner and avoid Woolsey’s attempts to make them socialize and make fun of the inevitable bad dancing when someone spikes the punch with Zelenka’s moonshine. He wouldn’t have to watch his tone or pay attention to someone else’s needs -- Sheppard is pretty self-sufficient.

One of the flaps on the tent is pulled back and Sheppard and Teyla reappear, each with a canvas sack hefted over a shoulder.

“Here, take this,” Sheppard says, handing his over to Ronon. Teyla hands hers to McKay, and then she and Sheppard duck back into the tent to grab two more. They make their way back to the Gate, and McKay is too busy complaining about the weight to bicker with Ronon about his datelessness.

\--

Simpson stops beside the table McKay’s working at and says, “Dr. McKay, have you--”

“No I have _not_ gotten a date for Woolsey’s stupid party,” he practically shouts at her. “I probably won’t even go. Now, if you don’t _mind_ , I am very busy with very important things that will prevent us from all dying.”

“I was _going_ to ask about the mapping algorithm,” Simpson says haughtily, crossing her arms.

“Oh. I don’t know, I gave that project to Radek; go ask him.”

McKay catches a glimpse of Simpson’s face as she stalks off. He sighs and makes a note to ban any further party talk from the labs.

\--

It’s not like he even _wants_ to go, McKay thinks desperately after a week of dodging inquiries from nearly everyone he knows. Even Woosley gets into it--at a senior staff meeting one morning, he informs them all that their presence is required in order to set a good example for their subordinates.

“While I am generally not in favor of inter-office dating,” he tells them, “I understand it is inevitable on an expedition such as this, so you are welcome to attend with company if you wish.” He looks around at them all, his gaze seeming to spend extra time on McKay. When the meeting is over, McKay dashes out before anyone can ask him if he’s gotten a date yet.

He doesn’t know if Sheppard’s been fielding the same haranguing that he has, but the number of times Sheppard’s name has come up in McKay’s interrogations is very, very high. It’s always casual, like it’s just a random point of interest: “Oh, huh, well, I hear Colonel Sheppard hasn’t asked anyone either. How about that.”

Are they the only two people in the entire city that haven’t found someone to take to this ridiculous function? No one seems to understand exactly how valuable his time is; honestly, women should be lining up to ask _him_.

Anyway, when he and Sheppard hang out, they both avoid any talk of the impending party. Neither of them is particularly good at or fond of group social activities, and they have better things to discuss anyway (Classic _Battlestar Galatica_ versus the remake has been a hot topic lately, with McKay firmly on the side of tradition and Sheppard constantly saying, “But the _effects_ Rodney!”).

They’re in an empty lab in one of the far towers, avoiding Woolsey and any party preparation they might get roped into, playing chess and drinking beer. Sheppard makes an uncomfortable face and, going for casual and missing, says, “So, do you have a date for the party tomorrow?”

McKay sets his drink down and wrinkles his nose. “Not you too.”

“Not me what?”

“Asking if I’ve got a damn date! Why is everyone suddenly so interested in whether I bring someone? We’re all going to be there anyway--who cares if there’s someone specifically labeled ‘Rodney McKay’s date’?” He throws his hands up. “And everyone keeps telling me you haven’t gotten a date either. Either they’re trying to make me feel better by saying the great John Sheppard also hasn’t managed to swing a date or--” he breaks off suddenly.

“Or what?” Sheppard prompts, his face going carefully impassive. He moves a knight.

McKay swallows hard and feels his face heat up. It’s no big deal, he tells himself. They’ll both laugh about it and that will be that. It’s ridiculous anyway. “Either that, or the entire base is trying to set us up.”

Sheppard’s face doesn’t change, mostly because his entire body freezes for a fraction of a second. Then his face regains its usual mask of composure, the one he wears when he doesn’t want anyone to see what he’s really thinking. “You and me, huh?”

“Yeah,” McKay agrees, his voice a little strangled. “Ridiculous, right? I mean, we’re both guys. And, y’know, straight.”

Sheppard’s voice sounds a little funny when he says, “Yeah.”

“But…” McKay starts before he can stop himself. “I mean, we _could_ , y’know, um, go together. If you wanted to.” Part of him is rendered speechless with shock and horror and wishes desperately to shove the words back where they came from, but another part, a larger part, McKay thinks, just gives Sheppard a sort of hopeful look, something fluttering in his stomach. Because he’s pretty sure he’s not actually attracted to men, not in a romantic way, but it’s hard to deny that Sheppard is attractive and McKay enjoys spending time with him and hey, human sexuality is pretty flexible. Just because he never seriously considered dating Sheppard before doesn’t mean it’s entirely inconceivable.

To Sheppard’s credit, he doesn’t immediately burst into incredulous laughter or make a disgusted face or try to “let him down gently”. He just looks vaguely uncomfortable and says, “Rodney…”

....Right. McKay hasn’t been able to get the idea of dating Sheppard out of his head for days. It’s absurd for a number of very good reasons, and yet he can’t shake it. He’s been so caught up in whether _he’d_ want to or could want to that he forgot that Sheppard doesn’t, couldn’t.

It never bothered him before, that he and Sheppard were just friends. But now that he’s given it some thought, knows anything else is impossible, he can’t let it go.

He doesn’t know what he wants anyway. That bothers him almost as much.

Sheppard’s looking at him kind of desperately, so tries to backtrack, mentally cursing his big, stupid mouth. “As friends,” he blurts. “You know, like a group. Just so people will stop asking.”

“Just as friends,” Sheppard repeats. He seems to look a little less tense around the eyes, so McKay heaves a mental sigh of relief and shoves away the little stab of something like disappointment.

He smiles back at Sheppard. He meets Sheppard’s eyes, but his gaze keeps getting pulled down to Sheppard’s mouth. His lips are full and they look soft, and McKay wonders what it might be like to kiss him...

He realizes he might be in trouble here.

“Great,” he says hurriedly. “I just remembered I have a simulation I have to check on. I’ll, uh, I’ll come by around eight. Tomorrow. See you.” He abandons the chess board and his half-finished drink and beats a hasty retreat.

 

McKay spends the rest of the evening and most of the next morning immersed in his work, trying desperately not to think of Sheppard, the party, or any combination of the two. He forbids anyone from speaking to him about anything that isn’t an absolute emergency. The ZPM must be actively exploding and about to kill everyone on the planet or they’ll have to take it up with someone else. 

This works pretty well. No one is able to ask if he’s got a date, but it doesn’t prevent Zelenka from giving him significant glances and holding fervent whispered conversations with Simpson and Miko just out of earshot. McKay can’t really ban all speech from the labs (well, he’d like to, but they’d just disregard it). He does his best to ignore them.

He’s startled out of an improvement to the water filtration system when Zelenka clears his throat and says, “Don’t you have a date to get ready for?”

McKay’s tempted to tell him off for the forbidden party talk, but it’s been years since Zelenka has been cowed by McKay’s bluster, so it wouldn’t do any good. He settles for a scowl. “No,” he says, even though he does, sort of.

Zelenka raises an eyebrow at him. “I hear you are going with Colonel Sheppard.”

“As _friends_ ,” McKay says. “So you people would stop asking about it.”

“If you say so Rodney.” Zelenka smirks. “I will see you later as I _do_ have a date to prepare for.” He leaves.

McKay has no idea who Radek would even _ask_. He makes a point of ignoring the personal lives of his coworkers, but the last women that McKay can remember Zelenka being interested in had been Elizabeth and Sam. He’s clearly got a thing for women in positions of authority. McKay hopes he isn’t planning to pursue Woolsey.

He shakes his head to clear it of _that_ disturbing thought, then shuts down his computers and heads out to get ready.

He takes a shower and shaves and waffles briefly over whether or not to wear aftershave. It’s not like this is an actual date, after all, and his chances of getting laid seem pretty close to nil, but he guesses there’s always the chance that he’ll hit it off with one of the women in the soft sciences, whom he normally ignores.

He settles on a tiny bit of aftershave, then stares into his closet and feels like an idiot. He’s a grown man, not a teenage girl, and it’s not a date anyway, so who cares what he wears? His uniform is pretty comfortable, so that’s what he usually ends up wearing, even on his days off (not that he has many, and he usually spends them working anyway). He can’t even remember the last time he wore civilian clothes.

He shoves some shirts aside and spots a pair of dark wash jeans crumpled in the back of the closet. He’d actually forgotten he’d brought these--he can’t remember how long they’ve been back there, but he doesn’t remember getting them when Atlantis was on Earth, so it’s probably been a while. He snags them and shakes them out--yeah, that will do. 

He pairs the jeans with a striped button down, checks his hair one more time in the mirror, and then heads for the door. He’s raising a hand to the door sensor when it chimes. McKay frowns and opens the door, which slides back to reveal Sheppard, dressed in a light blue button down and jeans and holding a chessboard.

They both sort of stare at each other for a long moment, and McKay spares a thought to hope someone breaks out the hard liquor early. If he has to spend the whole night pushing away thoughts of Sheppard’s ass and the way his shirt fits snug across his shoulders, it’s going to be a very, very long night.

Sheppard coughs and shoves the chessboard at him. “Here, you left this yesterday.”

“Oh, thanks,” says McKay, taking it. He tosses it onto the bed, then turns back to Sheppard. His palms are sweating a little, and now he definitely feels like a teenage girl. 

They stare at each other for another moment, and then Sheppard rotates his hand in a little c’mon already gesture, and McKay almost laughs. Some of the tension dissipates, and they make their way to the mess hall.

It’s not a date, McKay tells himself firmly as they walk. Just because it maybe feels a little bit like a date, it isn’t, and that’s that. 

They walk into the mess hall together. A couple of people glance over at them, but it’s not like it’s super out of the ordinary for Sheppard and McKay to show up to places together. Zelenka, who appears to be here with one of the zoologists, catches McKay’s eye and raises a pointed eyebrow, but McKay ignores him.

The mess hall looks a lot like it normally does, but all the tables are pushed back against the walls, laden with food and drinks. There’s music playing, something late-Romantic and unobtrusive, and people are milling around, eating and chatting. McKay’s thinking of making a beeline for the cheap SGC-provided champagne to calm his jittery nerves when Woolsey pops up out of nowhere, dressed in a formal black suit.

“Ah, gentlemen, glad to see you could join us,” he says, as if they had a choice. McKay scowls and Sheppard pulls a face, but Woolsey ignores their reactions and continues. “I hope you’ll make an effort to spend time with your newer colleagues as well as your more established ones. A healthy community is to everyone’s benefit, after all.”

Tension’s putting McKay in the mood to be contrary, and he’s about to say something snarky about community starting with people who aren’t meddlesome idiots, but Woolsey excuses himself to greet a group of marines, looking terribly out of place dressed in civvies but still holding themselves like soldiers.

Sheppard steers him to the buffet table. Once they’ve gotten drinks and loaded plates, they retreat to a corner of the room to plan how to avoid Woolsey and their other co-workers for long enough to make it clear they’ve put in an appearance before they can leave.

Woolsey is distracted for a while greeting people as they arrive, but once it’s clear that everyone who is coming has done so, he circles back to McKay and Sheppard.

“As the Chief Science Officer and the Military Commander of the Atlantis Expedition, it’s your job to set a good example for everyone else,” Woolsey tells them officiously. “Now, I certainly understand the desire to form cliques, but this expedition can only succeed if we resist those urges.”

McKay resists the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. He glances at Sheppard, who quirks an eyebrow microscopically and twitches the corner of his mouth. Apparently unaware that Sheppard and McKay are planning to resume their cliquing as soon as Woolsey’s attention is directed elsewhere, he continues, “I expect you to speak with as many of your colleagues as you can.”

“‘As many as I can’ is a lower number than you think,” mutters McKay, and Sheppard stifles a chuckle.

Woolsey raises an eyebrow disapprovingly and says, “Please make an effort.” He doesn’t spell out the consequences of disregarding his request, but his tone implies there will most certainly be some. Woosey has definitely loosened up after a year and a half on Atlantis, but he’s still _Woolsey_., and McKay has learned the hard way not to piss off the people who allocate project funding.

“Fine, fine,” McKay says airly, flapping a hand.

Sheppard says, “Sure thing,” and they start to turn away.

“Separately,” Woolsey says, doing the eyebrow thing again.

McKay scowls, but they part and trudge off to talk to people they don’t know or like.

 

McKay’s ten minutes into an interminable conversation with a marine biologist whose name he can’t be bothered to remember when he catches a glimpse of Sheppard in his peripheral vision.

“Uh huh,” he says to the biologist, mostly tuning her out but listening vaguely to her speech contours for pauses that indicate his input is required. Sheppard is talking to one of his new marines, a young dark-skinned man. He’s attractive, but in that large buff way that McKay has never cared for. (He’d been beat up by enough of them in middle school, and yes, he was very secure in his intellectual superiority, but the experience had nonetheless left an impression.)

Shepard’s posture is typically slouchy, and he throws back his head and laughs at something the marine says. He’s holding a drink in one hand, and the thumb of his other hand is hooked into a belt loop of his jeans. His body language screams relaxed, and if McKay didn’t know better, he might also categorize it as _interested_. He’s not close enough to check for the tell-tale tension around his eyes and in the set of his shoulders that means it’s all an act. (And Jesus, McKay is apparently in way too deep to know Sheppard that well.)

“Doctor McKay?” says the biologist and not, McKay suspects, for the first time. He shoves away an irrational flash of jealousy (because seriously, it’s been two decades since he was a teenager) and turns his gaze back to her face. She’s frowning and her arms are crossed.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Go on.” She gives him a brief skeptical look, but then she resumes her lecture on mollusk biology (and really, McKay can recall being less bored in the intro physics class he’d been forced to take in grade school).

His eyes slide around her again, seemingly of their own accord, looking for Sheppard and his new marine friend, but that conversation has apparently broken up, because McKay doesn’t see Sheppard anywhere he can look without being incredibly obvious.

He looks back at the biologist, keeping an ear on her speech contours but devoting most of his attention to vague plans for updating the naquadah generators.

 

After a seemingly unending number of conversations with people whose names he won’t remember about things he wasn’t actually listening to in the first place, Woolsey gets everyone’s attention and makes a short speech.

“I am pleased to see this little attempt at fostering community has been so successful,” he says, beaming at them. 

McKay rolls his eyes. Weekly (or sometimes daily) mortal peril has historically been a much better creator of community than cocktail parties, but he supposes the party is preferable to 36 panicked-filled hours spent hopped up on amphetamines in order to keep them all from dying horribly.

“Thank you all for attending. Please feel free to continue on as long as you wish -- though please keep your morning schedules in mind.” There’s a titter of polite laughter (mostly, McKay notes, from the new people. Suck ups.)

Woolsey leaves, and then the real party starts. Someone changes the music to something modern with a beat, and people gather in the middle of the room to dance. As expected, someone breaks out Zelenka’s moonshine shortly after that, and the dancing gets a lot worse.

McKay is waylaid for a while breaking up an argument between a linguist and an archeologist over database access (he reminds them that neither of them are real scientists and he can and will redistribute access to more important disciplines as he sees fit), but when he finally manages to extricate himself, he spots Sheppard watching the crowd of dancers and hurries over so they can commiserate about their forced social interactions. When he gets closer, he sees Sheppard is already a drink or two in, his face slightly pink, his eyes bright.

McKay swallows hard, entirely too sober to deal with an attractively flushed John Sheppard in jeans tight enough to be almost obscene. He’s still working on his first glass of rotgut, having learned the hard way that the pale purple liquor is strong enough to knock out grown men twice his size and with double his tolerance. 

“Hey, Rodney,” Sheppard says, grinning at him, and McKay is pleased to see none of the tension that means he’s pretending. 

He covers the effect it has on him by launching directly into a rant about the idiots the SGC has foisted upon him. “They’re not even bothering to really screen them anymore,” he complains, studiously ignoring Sheppard’s amused expression. “None of them has contributed anything useful to the field at all. I mean, nothing gets out of Cheyenne Mountain, so their entire base of knowledge is wrong. The SGC just assumes what’s groundbreaking for research that’s restricted to Earth will carry over to the Stargate program.” He scowls. “At least yours are trained.”

Sheppard makes a face. “Sort of. They’re green though. No combat experience.”

“Oh, great,” says McKay, voice sarcastically bright. “That’s exactly what we need in a galaxy full of space vampires and traitorous faux-agrarians -- marines incapable of independent thought.”

“They’ll learn,” says Sheppard, and then his voice turns sombre. “Most of them will, anyway.”

They drink in silence for a moment, the past heavy, but then McKay decides that he’s not nearly drunk enough to be this maudlin and anyway, there’s a party on and he’s here with the freakishly attractive Colonel John Sheppard, who probably turned down invitations to this thing in droves. He’s not in the mood to dwell on their losses, especially not when they haven’t happened yet.

He clears his throat and then barrels on. “You know one of mine tried to impress me with a theory I disproved three days into joining the SGC? He actually used the word ‘innovative’. Honestly, they’re all just useless for the first three weeks. If I wanted to teach undergraduate physics, I’m sure MIT or Cal Tech would pay me large amounts of money to do so.”

Sheppard makes a sympathetic noise. “You’ll teach them.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t _have_ to.” McKay scowls again, and takes a sip of his drink.

He and Sheppard watch the dancers for a while, chatting idly. The music changes to something fast and bass-heavy. Simpson drags Miko and Bryce out onto the floor and starts doing some strange shimmying hip thing while the other women giggle. A tipsy Simpson is a sight to behold, like a violent train wreck that McKay just can’t look away from. Then a young-looking marine starts shimmying with her, and McKay thinks about making Zelenka hide his hooch for future parties, if only to save his eyes this sight. Simpson’s had a few good ideas, he’ll give her that, but if she keeps this up, he’s putting her on the first wormhole back to Earth.

People are starting to pair off, slouching in out-of-the-way corners, heads bowed together. Zelenka winks at him as he waltzes by with his zoologist, and McKay spots Teyla and Kanaan on the dance floor, their foreheads pressed together as they sway to the music. Ronon and Amelia are just past them, plastered against each other and doing some complicated footwork. Even Miko has her hand on Major Hinton’s bicep and her eyes on his face.

It seems like everyone’s got someone, despite the relatively slim pickings that is the Atlantis Expedition, and here’s McKay and Sheppard, drinking horrible alien potato vodka and being terrible at group social activities, together, platonically.

“Look,” McKay says suddenly, interrupting Sheppard mid-sentence (McKay thinks he was trying to explain the allure of golf again, but McKay had long-since turned out that particular topic). Sheppard quirks an eyebrow at him, but he carries on, heedless: “I know I said we could go to this stupid thing as friends, but I don’t… I--” Sheppard shoots him a warning look, his eyes darting around the room. McKay ignores him--he has to say this, he thinks, because he’s been going over it for weeks, and it just makes sense. They’re halfway there already. McKay sucks at this, emotions and people, but he’s not a total idiot, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just him. It can’t be, not after all the infirmary vigils and movie marathons and weird faces when he’d mentioned he was thinking of proposing to Jennifer. And okay, the way Sheppard had sort of freaked when he’d asked him about the party in the first place had not been particularly encouraging, but who knows what weird hang ups Sheppard might have about this. 

“I want this to be a date,” he says finally. “Everyone kept bringing you up and giving me looks and I thought they were all nuts, but I thought about it, and I really think you should consider dating me.”

McKay winces and prepares for the worst, for Sheppard to make uncomfortable faces and try to let him down easy with claims to his heterosexuality. And okay, yeah, maybe the middle of a crowded party is not the _best_ place for this, but it’s sort of too late now. He can only hope that Sheppard will at least still want to be his friend.

Sheppard’s eyes do another nervous cast around the room, his face and shoulders tense. “Rodney,” he says slowly. “I can’t.”

Not “I won’t” or “I don’t want to”, but “can’t.”

“Sure you can,” says McKay doggedly. “We’ll call _this_ a date, than then later--”

Sheppard cuts him off. “Rodney,” he says, a little desperately. He looks around the room again, and then McKay gets it.

“What, because of that idiotic military policy? God, Americans are so repressed.” Sheppard shrugs a shoulder, still looking a little hunted, and McKay rolls his eyes. “First of all, we’re in an entirely different galaxy, and second of all, these people are mostly your _friends_ , Sheppard. No one’s going to report you. Plus I’m pretty sure your 2IC and one of my botanists have been together since we got back from Earth.” He gestures to where Lorne and Parish are standing over by the balcony, fingers intertwined, talking with their heads bent close together.

Sheppard looks extremely unsurprised, so McKay figures he is once again the last to know something of a personal nature (apparently Jennifer had been dating her current boyfriend for _months_ before he found out about it, though McKay chalks that mostly up to some idiotic attempt to spare his feelings). Sheppard does look marginally less tense anyway, so McKay thinks maybe he just needs a little more convincing.

“I know self-sacrifice is your default setting, but you have to admit it makes sense, you and me,” he continues. “We already spend most of our downtime together, and we already know each other’s annoying habits. And you’re definitely no slouch in the looks department. I don’t really have a lot of experience with -- y’know -- but I’m a quick study, and how difficult can it really be?”

McKay has about four more bullet points, but he stops short when Sheppard laughs. It’s not derisive, or cruel, it’s just genuine and amused. “Alright, Rodney, you’ve convinced me.”

“Wait, really?” asks McKay, always willing to look a gift horse in the mouth (just look at Troy). “Because I had more.”

Sheppard grins at him, the real one that he usually reserves for his team. “Really.” He steps toward McKay, closing the distance between them. McKay can no longer keep his hands to himself, and he slides his hands up Sheppard’s chest, about to reel him in for what promises to be a really fantastic kiss.

He’s just leaning in when they’re suddenly startled apart by Zelenka shouting, “ _Finally_.” They swing around to stare at him as he clicks his fingers at Simpson, who’s scowling darkly. She slaps something McKay can’t see from this distance into Zelenka’s hand, and Zelenka beams at her, then beams at Sheppard and McKay.

McKay steps away from Sheppard and stalks over, jabbing a finger toward them. “You _were_ trying to set us up!” he accuses.

“We were not being particularly subtle about it,” Zelenka says unapologetically. “Good timing though.”

Simpson rolls her eyes. “For you maybe.”

McKay narrows his eyes. “Wait a minute. Were you _betting_ on us?”

Zelenka continues to look nonchalant, and something like guilt passes over Simpson’s face. “They were _betting_ on us!” he says to Sheppard, voice rising dramatically in pitch. 

He’s working himself up to a really spectacular rant about respecting people’s privacy, especially when that person is your _boss_ and controls the duty roster and can therefore restrict you to _sanitation duty_ for the _foreseeable future_ when Sheppard’s hand lands on his shoulder.

McKay turns into it. Sheppard’s posture is slouchy and the thumb of his other hand is hooked through a belt loop. There’s a smirk on his lips and a glint in his eye, something bright and happy and just a little wicked. 

“On second thought,” McKay says absently as he starts to follow Sheppard toward the doors, “ _Mazel tov._ ”


End file.
